On the Other Side
by Radioheaded
Summary: House finds himself at Wilson's funeral....but is he really gone? And what's waiting for House on the other side? Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. If I did, I wouldn't be on this computer.
1. I Don't Want to Get Over You

Title: On the Other Side

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own words and characters; nothing recognizable from the show House is mine.

Please R/R!

It wasn't like him to cry, so he didn't. Instead he leaned even further into the wall, letting it hold his weight. _Equal and opposite reaction, _his mind whispered unconsciously;_ the wall is pushing me. _He observed the black-clad crowd, going through the motions of mourning. Some sat deflated in their chairs with blank stares, unable (or unwilling) to accept the death in front of them.

Others cried, letting their emotion pour out for the world to see; they sought comfort—and an explanation. Why take someone so young, and so good?

Hours passed, and still House kept his back against the wall, ignoring the increasing pain of his leg. He absentmindedly rubbed it, trying to massage the stiffness away, but his actions were futile. As the last of the mourners left, House made his way to the casket that held the shell of a once-great man. The box—_That's all it is,_ House mused; _a fancy box for Wilson to rot in—_was a dark, cherry stained monstrosity. Its cushions were a bright white; it almost hurt to look at them. Wilson looked positively tan in comparison.

House hadn't expected this. He'd seen bodies before; He'd watched as people drew their last breaths. He'd felt live hearts slow and stop in his hand. He knew death. But Wilson didn't look dead. He looked like he was sleeping, as if at any moment, he'd sit up and chastise House for falling for this elaborate prank.

But this awakening wasn't to be. House's fingertips traced Wilson's face, as light as butterflies. He ran them over the shallow lines of Wilson's forehead, remembering how they defined his expressions; they deepened to express incredulity—and ecstasy. House's fingers moves down to Wilson's eyes. That brown, that exact opposite of his own cerulean gaze had the power to communicate vulnerability, love, and passion. Then, the lips. Perfectly shaped, and pale pink against his creamy skin. Those lips couldn't keep a secret; they flushed to the color of raspberries after House stole kisses from them.

A drop of water splashed on Wilson's cheek. It remained static for a moment before trailing down toward his ear. House put his hand to his face, and with the same fingers that had caressed Wilson's face felt the wetness that had made its way down his cheeks. House stared at the liquid on his hands. The fingertips returned to Wilson's cheek, and left the salty mark of House's grief. He took one last look at Wilson's shell, then turned his back and made his way home.


	2. Crown of Love

_ Wilson was running late. Though he was aware of how badly House dealt with tardiness (everyone's except his own, that is), his thoughts were not on his boyfriend. Instead, his mind was filled with flashbacks of his last patient. She was a sophomore in college, who had come in to the clinic on a whim complaining of headaches.  
As Wilson peered at the glowing pictures of the girl's skull, he felt his heart sink. The young woman had an inoperable brain tumor. _You deal with this all the time,_ his mind whispered_. So why am I so upset?_ In reality, he knew why. She was so young; and yet she was being taken away.  
_

_ The hall that led into the clinic stretched on forever. The girl sat in room 12C, in her own bubble of life and happiness. Wilson imagined she had plans with her friends tonight; that she had a boyfriend who cared for her. The closer he came to her, the closer he was to collapsing her world; his news was the sort that crushed the spirit. The walls of the clinic were white, decorated with floral wallpaper. It seemed incongruous that a place that regularly delivered sadness and disease could look so sterile, so serene.  
_

_ Wilson arrived at the door. His hand, slightly damp from dread, paused over the handle. _Get it together; you need to tell her_. He mentally shook himself and placed his hand firmly on the door. Wilson rearranged his features to look friendly and neutral; as he stepped in the room, the girl spoke before he could tell her the prognosis.  
"I feel so stupid, Dr… uh,"  
"Wilson," he supplied, studying her. She made an apologetic face for her memory lapse, ran a hand through her hair, and continued.  
"Wilson. It's finals time, and I'm staring at a computer screen for 12 hours a day. Freaking English major, right? But, I shouldn't talk; I'm guessing pre-med was killer. Anyway, it's probably just stress, right?"  
Wilson looked down. Behind him was a stool, which he slid closer to the girl. The table she sat on was higher than his seat; her legs dangled in front of him. He sat, slowly, and looked up into her eyes.  
"Miss Zhan. Is it ok if I call you Alicia?"  
"Yeah…" Alicia's voice shook. The doctor's tone, his sympathetic eyes meant trouble.  
"I'm so sorry, but—Wilson felt his eyes well up as he said this—you have an inoperable brain tumor. It's putting pressure on your skull wall, and has metastasized to other areas of the brain."  
Alicia sat for a moment. Then, slowly, she whispered,  
"How long?"  
"I really can't say without a better look at your tests, but—"  
"How long."  
He sighed, resigned to delivering the girl's death sentence. "A year."  
"I just go to college here. My parents live in Connecticut. I have no one here…" Alicia's voice shook. She was on the verge of tears. Her hands were at her face, and her dark hair covered her eyes, as if it was a shield from the world. Wilson took her hands, and before he knew it, she was in his arms, sobbing wildly. He held her as she burrowed into his chest. His cheek found its way to her head, and he breathed in the clean scent of her shampoo.  
_

_ Wilson snapped out of his memory as a car horn sounded behind him. The light had turned green, and he was still idling at the intersection, wrapped up in his afternoon. He shifted into first and accelerated into the intersection. He was halfway through when he heard an odd sound coming from his right. A high pitched, whistling sound that was getting louder. Wilson quickly looked to find the source of the noise, and before his world went black, his mind whispered one last thought:_ House.

A policeman surveyed the damage around him. Twenty car pile-up on Nova Mountain. Some cars were still glowing with heat as workers tried to clear the debris and reroute traffic."Kennington!" His chief shouted, waving him over.  
"Chief?" He replied, as he jogged over to the wreck his superior was currently examining.  
"This was the source, right here. I'm guessing the truck lost its breaks coming down Nova, and this car here was the first hit."  
Kennington peered into the wreck. He had seen dead bodies before, but they were still difficult to look at. The man inside the car looked alive, peaceful even. The only sign of death was the awkward angle of his neck, and a small pool of blood that dripped from his mouth.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The phone rang in House's apartment.  
"Wilson, I don't care what movie you rent!" House snapped, as he picked up the phone. "Just get here."  
"Is this Gregory House?" an unfamiliar voice replied, ignoring the comment.  
"Yes," house said, slowly. "Who's this?"  
"Mr. House, I'm afraid there's been an accident."


	3. Breathe Me

Thanks everyone for the reviews; they mean a lot, and help me write faster. As always, I own nothing and no one. Enjoy, and please review!

_Wilson knew, before he ever opened his eyes, that he couldn't have lived through that crash. His eyelashes parted slowly. The light of midday shrank his pupils while illuminating the gold flecks in his chocolate-colored eyes. What Wilson saw was a ceiling. _His _ceiling. For the moment, he ignored the implausibility of waking up after such a bad accident in any location but a hospital, and focused on a more vital quandary. Because he was looking at a ceiling, Wilson knew he was lying down. Problem was, he didn't _feel _as if he were lying down. In fact, he didn't feel anything at all._

_He tested the waters by trying to sit up. It worked, as he was now looking at a wall, but still, he felt nothing._

"You're not supposed to."

_The hair on Wilson's arms stood up. He was in an empty room with a newly-acquired omniscient narrator. _

_"I'm not supposed to what?" He questioned of the empty air around him._

"Feel anything."

_Anger over the unknown and impossible propelled Wilson to his feet. _

_"Ok. I'm pretty sure I'm dead. I'm hearing voices from nowhere in an apartment that probably doesn't exist. Would it be possible to cut short the cryptic, ominous voiceovers and actually explain what the hell is happening to me?"_

_Wilson's eyes fluttered. A dull ache began in his head, then quickly spread to his arms. It traveled through his body at lightning speed. His head throbbed; soon his entire being followed suit. He swayed on his feet slightly, taking shuddering breathes. He shut his eyes, and was immediately back in his car, watching as a truck wildly careened towards his car. His gaze locked with the driver's. Somehow, Wilson felt the driver's thoughts. The driver was scared; he desperately tried to turn the wheel, to let out the clutch and shift down to slow lessen the velocity of the impact. _

_Time slowed down, and all noise was silenced, except for a peculiar sound. It sounded like a heartbeat, but had an echo. _My heartbeat, _Wilson realized, _and his. _Wilson's heart raced, and began to synch with that of the driver. Wilson's perspective changed, and suddenly he was looking at the accident from the outside, as if on the curb. _

_The truck's breaks squealed wildly, but it was of no use. Wilson watched in horror as the truck hit his car. He watched as jerked into his window, then thrown against the wheel. The truck continued forward; Wilson's car had not slowed it. People desperately tried to steer away, but their efforts were in vain. The truck dragged a line of cars into oncoming traffic, creating a gridlock. The truck came to a halt, trapping people in their wrecked cars. The smell of gasoline hit the air, and soon the cars were engulfed in flames. _

_Wilson watched all this in horror; as he looked on, the hearts thundered in his ears; along with a new sensation. Wilson dropped to the sidewalk. His veins, his head, his lungs. Everything was on fire; everything was burning and begging for a release. The hearts got faster. The pain increased. Then, slowly, a blessed numb feeling began in Wilson's fingers. The beats in his head slowed, and the numbness traveled from Wilson's hands to his arms; his entire body was soon blissfully unaware. As the last of the pain left his body, Wilson heard the hearts slow further, then stop. _

_Wilson put a hand to his face; he shook his head and covered his eyes. Now, he was the patient shielding himself from reality. When he removed his hands, they were covered in tears and blood. _

"Do you understand now?" The voice asked him calmly, as if Wilson had not just witnessed his own death.

"_Understand what?" Wilson whispered, now back on the bed. He felt….numb again. Removed from his own death. He knew it had happened, but couldn't bring himself to care, somehow. _

"If you could feel, you'd be too trapped in your own emotion and grief to make the decision."

"_What decision?"_

"The decision about where you're going."

"_What do you mean?" Wilson couldn't make sense of anything; what decision? Where was a dead man supposed to go?_

"Put simply, you were a mistake. You weren't supposed to be taken when you were."

"_What does that mean for me?"_

"It means you're not ready for Heaven. Your soul needs closure; it needs time to heal. The decision you have to make is where you'll find said contentment."

"_Does this mean…I can go back?" Wilson felt hope for a minute, though it was subdued. _

"Not like you're thinking. You would go back as a spirit; a ghost, as you call them."

"_And the alternative?"_

"You stay here, in Limbo, as you call it, and find closure on your own."

"_I want to go back."_

"Before you make a decision, you need to know this. You cannot be seen, touched, or felt. You'll have no effect on anyone. You'll be there simply to find closure; once you do, you must leave."

"_I want to go back."_

A little bit of a cliffhanger……sorry, guys! I'll try to update again tomorrow. Hope you like it!


	4. Sleep

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one; the show House has nothing to do with me.

Please R&R!

Chapter 4: Sleep

Chest discomfort. Blurred vision. Dizziness. Fever. Blue eyes gazed at the whiteboard, scanning these symptoms over and over. It was Monday. The wake and funeral were over. House sat, mulling over the his patient's condition when Cameron, Chase and Foreman entered the room.

"Hey," Cameron's tone was that of an adult trying to calm a child down after a minor injury; her eyes practically begged for House to open up and share his feelings.

Foreman and Chase nodded their greetings. While Foreman did mourn the loss of Wilson, his distaste for House was great enough to prevailed over any sympathy he might have had for the man. Chase felt for House, but knew any support shown would be unwelcome.

"How are you holding up?" Cameron continued, walking over to the sink. She took House's mug, the red one he stole from Wilson, and poured him a cup of coffee. House looked at her hard as she brought the coffee to him. His intense stare caused her to flush slightly. She felt the blush creep along her cheekbones; she wanted to bring a cool hand to her face, but refrained, in hopes that House wouldn't notice her embarrassment.

"Cameron," he began, his gravelly voice low, "The man I had sex with frequently is just barely cold, and you're already lining up to jump my bones?"

Cameron's eyes took on a slight sheen. She opened her mouth to deflect the cruel comment when Cuddy walked into the room.

"Cameron," she began, though her confident tone faltered when she saw House. Addressing him, she wondered,

"House, what are you doing here?" Her hands went to her hips, and her eyes took on the sympathetic gaze that Chase and Cameron did so well.

"There's a pretty logical explanation for this, Cuddy. I'll try to break it down so you understand it better. I. Work. Here."

Cuddy ignored House's asinine remark.

"No, you need to take some time off."

"What for?"

"You're emotionally impaired right now—more so than usual. I can't risk having you treat patients. I've already cleared you for a two-week sabbatical."

"I'm fine." House rose, with the help of his cane. "You can't make me leave."

Addressing Chase, Cuddy asked for the time.

"Uh, it's about 7:30."

"Exactly. House, you're never here before 11. I want you gone in ten minutes." Cuddy turned to leave, smirking at her victory. It had been too easy.

"There's only one way you're getting me out of this hospital." Cuddy winced before turning around and meeting House's gaze.

"A month."

"Three months."

"Two months. That's your best offer."

"Two whole months. I may even start to miss the clinic. Ah, well. Done."

"Fine. Now, get out." Cuddy gave House a tight smile. "Funny, I've always wanted to say that to you."

House moved towards the door that led into his office. He turned back, as if he had forgotten something.

"The patient. She a vegetarian?"

"Yeah," Foreman answered. "Why?"

"She has Cryptococcosis. She ate unwashed fruit, and now the bacteria is spreading through her system. Keep her away from other patients, and make sure your meningitis shots are up to date." He glared at them all before entering his office. "Wow," he said, slowly. "Cuddy was right. I'm SO unfit."

House sat in his home, alone save for a bottle of Vicodin and Jack Daniels. In his drunken state, he felt something unfurl within him. He groaned as his stomach churned. "Psychosomatic bullshit," House said to his empty apartment. Whether his sudden nausea was a result of the mix of his vices, or the psychosis of his own mind, House decided it would be better to take his party to the bathroom. He limped towards the toilet, bumping into the doorframe as he went. The monster in his stomach was climbing up his esophagus; it wanted to be released. As his breakfast greeted him on its way to the toilet, House felt sadness wash over him in waves. Having nothing left to give to the toilet, he curled up on the floor and pressed his throbbing head into the cool tile. Tears from the strain of throwing up made their way down his face and pooled on the floor below.

In his pathetic state, House couldn't help but think of Wilson. Ironically, their relationship was helped along by the very same social lubricant that was steadily making its way through his blood stream.

It all began with a wager over the Red Sox. Neither men cared much for baseball, but it was a way to unwind after work. Wilson had just divorced wife number three, and House had told him to come over—in the gruffest way possible, of course.

As the game ended, House cackled over his newfound riches. The Red Sox had beaten the Yankees, and House was now the proud owner of $300 of Wilson's salary.

"It's too easy to take your money," House slurred. Somehow, one shot had turned into seven. House's muscles felt like liquid; even his leg felt better. He was happy and relaxed, as was Wilson, who was just as smashed as House (much to do with goading and choruses of "You wuss. Match me for this shot."). Through the sheen of alcohol, he noticed how close he and Wilson were. When the night began, they were on opposite sides of the couch. Now, there was barely an inch between them, and House felt the warm pressure of Wilson's leg on his own.

House shifted away to put some room between them when he felt a hand on his leg. Though inebriated, he knew it didn't belong to him.

"Wilson," he whispered, his voice slightly lower and thicker, "Why are you touching me?" By this time, Wilson's hand had begun moving up his leg, radiating warmth.

Wilson didn't answer; instead he shifted to face House. Through his jeans, House felt Wilson shaking. His brown eyes were glossy; whether from fear or excitement, House couldn't tell. Wilson's hand moved from House's leg to his face, 'accidentally' brushing the crotch of his jeans along the way. House shuddered involuntarily; his mind raced. _Am I a rebound then? I want this….but I want Wilson, and not just for sex._

_Let him make the move._

Wilson's other hand made its way to House's neck. His fingers slid through House's short hair, tracing circles in his scalp. All the while, Wilson's eyes had been cast downward at his own lap; he looked up slowly into House's eyes and, seeing no discomfort in them, brought his lips to House's neck. His tongue slid across House's neck. It was slick with sweat, and Wilson tasted salt as he dragged his teeth along House's collarbone. His mouth traveled upwards slowly, until he was millimeters away from House's mouth. House's breath was coming fast now. Wilson pulled away to look into House's eyes—he wasn't resisting, but he wasn't reciprocating either. Wilson kept his eyes open as he softly brought his lips to House's; he ran his tongue over the soft flesh, and nibbled lightly on his bottom lip.

House looked straight into Wilson's eyes, then closed his. His lips opened to receive Wilson's tongue, which was still cool from the beer he'd been drinking. House wrapped his arms around Wilson, drawing him closer. House deepened the kiss even more; his tongue ran over every crevice in Wilson's mouth, as if trying to commit it to memory.

House broke the kiss and pulled away. Wilson's gaze returned to his lap. _If this is rejection,_ Wilson thought, _I don't want to see it. _House gently cupped Wilson's face, forcing the younger man to look him in the eye.

"We should move this to the bedroom."

Wilson's heart raced. House got up slowly, unsteady from the liquor and his leg. Wilson lent his arm, and they walked carefully to the bedroom. Before he realized what was happening, Wilson was spun around, his lips captured once again. House's hands moved from his back to his hips, then lower. Wilson's eyes widened; his breath caught in the kiss as House slowly unbuttoned his pants, letting them drop to the younger man's ankles. House's hands returned to Wilson, gently stroking him through the thin fabric of his boxers.

"Oh," James sighed. A wave of pleasure ran through him, his own hands slid to his waist, quickly shucking the boxers away from his skin. Wilson was now unabashedly naked, and House was still fully dressed. Ruefully, Wilson realized his tie was still on. His fingers moved nimbly to remove the knot, when House caught his hand. The older man leaned into Wilson, and traced his tongue around the younger man's ear. "Leave it on," he coyly whispered. James flushed, but hid it by taking the hem of House's shirt in his hands and wordlessly lifting it, revealing a patch of pale, smooth skin. The shirt climbed farther and revealed a muscular torso and shoulders as House lifted his own arms for his Rolling Stones tee to be removed.

Wilson gently pushed House down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, positioning himself carefully to limit House's discomfort. Their mouths met with intensity as they tried to make tangible their feelings and desires. Slick with sweat, they explored one another. Wilson ran his hands down House's legs. When he felt the scar that caused House so much pain, he kissed every inch of it. House gripped Wilson's hair, then his shoulders. He dug his nails into the soft flesh and slowly ran his hands down the younger man's back. Wilson shuddered from the mix of pleasure and pain. His mouth met House's and urgently kissed him. Without breaking away, Wilson grasped House's hands and pinned them to his side. He drew back from the kiss to slowly lick, nibble and stroke his way down to the older man's jeans, which still hadn't been removed. He unbuttoned the pesky garments, and in one quick jerk removed them from House's legs.

"Impressive. Is that how you got your many wives?"

Not bothering to reply, Wilson yanked House's boxers down and took him in his mouth. He began stroking and licking breathtakingly fast at first, then slowed down to an achingly unhurried pace. House's hips thrust into Jimmy unconsciously; he was beside himself with please. With a free hand, Wilson stimulated himself, immensely turned on by the bliss he was evoking in his newfound lover. House's eyes never left Wilson's, even as the younger man brought him to a blessed release. Wilson came with House, and collapsed next to him. They rode the waves of pleasure together, their sticky bodies touching.

"Wilson?" House asked, regaining the ability to speak.

"Yeah?" Wilson shifted onto his side and slid his arm around House's waist.

"Does this mean I'm your bottom?"

Every breath House took while lying on his bathroom floor brought with it the phantom smell of Wilson. The mix of cologne, shampoo, and Wilson's own natural scent washed over House, weaving nostalgia into his every thought. House fell asleep there, on the bathroom floor, and realized how alone he truly was.


	5. Chapter 5

As usual...I own nothing. Read and Review please!

"I want to go back."

The words rolled off Wilson's tongue almost instantaneously. There was no hesitation. _I don't care if they can't see me, _his mind cried out, without sense or reason_. I'll see them. I'll feel them._

"So be it," the omniscient voice sounded. Its tone was that of finality; though he dare not hope, Wilson thought the voice sounded as if it were smiling.

The voice's departure left a silence louder than any noise ringing in Wilson's ears. His head began to ache, and like before the feeling moved swiftly down his body. It increased until Wilson's entire body throbbed, like the heart that once beat life through his veins. Slowly, the pain ebbed. In its absence, Wilson realized something had been left behind. _Sensation,_ He realized. _I can feel._

The room that so closely mimicked Wilson's apartment began to blur. The objects around him began to melt and converge, reminding Wilson of the swirling colors of a kaleidoscope—or an acid trip. The colors became muddy as they mixed, until finally all that surrounded Wilson was a thick blackness. He opened his mouth to shout, to call out to someone, to something, when he saw a light.

_Not light, _he realized. _Lights. _Slowly, shapes began appearing around him. Their pale, mist-like consistency centered in a spherical shape that radiated clear, white light. Wilson turned to see where they were coming from, but when he glanced around, he realized his efforts were useless. They were everywhere; they went on forever in all directions. The spheres began to glow brighter until Wilson's eyes were forced shut. Even through his eyelids, he could feel and see the light, feel the wind in his hair.

_Wait. Wind? _Wilson's stomach began to churn, and he realized he had begun to fall. His hair whipped against his face, and air flowed over his body in a way reminiscent of swimming the cool morning water of an ocean. Through his shut eyelids, Wilson sensed that the surrounding lights had dimmed. He opened his eyes, dark like the blackness around him, and tried to get some kind of bearings.

From the direction of the wind, he surmised he was falling down. There were lights underneath him, and he quickly realized he was on a collision course with one of the glowing orbs. Before he had time to think, he was plunged into the orb's glowing light. The sudden change reminded Wilson swimming through a patch of water colder than the surrounding area; a jolt ran through his body and sent the hair on his neck and arms stand up.

_Flash_

Images ran through Wilson's mind.

A young girl blew out candles on a cake, only to watch them alight once more. The same girl, now older, stroked the fur of a dog stretched out on a veterinary table. Tears ran down her face as the animal sighed one last time. It didn't breathe in again.

_Flash_

Wilson was falling faster now. The wind wrapped itself around Wilson's hands and face, leaving freezing kisses in its wake. He approached another light.

_Flash_

A man held his wife's hand as she lay on the delivery table, pushing with all her might. Wilson watched as the baby screamed for the first time. The mother reached out for her, and looked into the eyes of her newborn for the first time.

_Flash_

Teenagers raced in a convertible on a hot summer night. A young girl stood up and threw her arms out, feeling alive in the wind. Her dark hair flew out behind her as the driver sped up.

_Flash_

Wilson could hardly breathe. The wind around him was stripped his eyes of liquid and made rattled his bones. Wilson tried to keep his eyes open, but once more the light around him grew exponentially brighter. He pressed his eyes shut, but the light burnt through. Daggers in the forms of waves and particles dragged their spikes into his brain

Wilson stood at a funeral. The color of this scene was anemic; washed-out faces stood stark against black suits and dresses. Wilson scanned the faces of the crowd, not really paying attention until his eyes locked upon a familiar face. Electric blue eyes. Salt and pepper hair and stubble. Wilson followed the lines of the body down. Broad shoulders. Large hands. Clasped in the right hand was a cane; one that had left bruises on his shins and scuffs on his floor. _House!_ Wilson realized, then faltered. Something about the man's expression wasn't right. There was something…..off about the man Wilson loved.

_His expression…._Wilson decided. The willful sneer that usually arranged itself onto House's features was nowhere to be found. What could be found was a….lacking. House's eyes spoke of no emotion; his lips weren't pursed or pushed into an angry line. He was expressionless. The only hint of House's true feelings were the wet trails making their way down House's cheekbones. With his left hand, House wiped away the tears as quickly as they had come.

Wilson's eyes slid away from the face of his grieving lover long enough to stray towards the casket. Though it was closed, Wilson could somehow see through it. He drew closer, and peered in at himself. His hair was parted neatly, albeit on the wrong side. His skin was powdered, but the pallor of death's grip was obvious in James' cheeks and lips. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, clutching a single white rose. Having seen enough, Wilson turned away from the cherry-stained casket that contained his body and walked towards his lover.


	6. Hide and Seek

House didn't feel quite right. _ No, really? _His own mind retorted, mocking him. He would never feel quite right. His leg, the bane of his existence, throbbed in time with his heart. The strain from standing for hours at James' grave, long after the funeral ended had done its damage, leaving House unable to find a comfortable position even now, two days later. But it wasn't his leg that was bothering him; its omnipresence was a fact of life he had gotten used to—or, at least, he managed with Vicodin. And, though the gaping hole that was Wilson's absence had neither grown smaller nor quieted its cries of despair and anguish, grief was not the cause of House's pins-and-needles of the mind.

House absentmindedly rubbed the leather of his couch—the couch on which Wilson had once slept—and peed. House chuckled at that memory, letting the remnants of Wilson wash over him. James had gotten him back for that prank. The younger doctor, up to his death, had been unaware that House had saved the two pieces of his filed-down cane. They were hidden in the back of his closet, along with a few pictures of Wilson. Even in a relationship, House kept the depth of his true feelings locked away, out of sight. _Stop it,_ House told himself. _Stop thinking about it._ Grief, like any other emotion, was not to be felt or dealt with. Instead it would be pushed away and forgotten, replaced with mysterious cases at work and the monotony of everyday life.

_So what's wrong?_ The sensation that something was _off_ somehow was like a splinter; it could be ignored, but its presence was there, lurking just under his periphery. It began at the funeral. House had been there, ignoring the proceedings while trying to keep emotion at bay, when something happened. The air became electric; House felt as if there was something with him, something expectant. Something in need of a release. It was almost like a……presence. For a split second, House let himself think Jimmy was there with him, and before he could stop them, tears made their way down his cheeks. _Forget it,_ he thought, roughly wiping the tears away. _You're alone. You'll always be alone. _And yet, his instincts and senses still told him there was something wrong—that he was missing something. House pondered this as he lay back on the couch and drifted off into a Vicodin-induced sleep.

House knew he was asleep because Wilson was there—and for a dead man, he looked pretty good. His deceased lover stood a few feet away, staring at House. The younger doctor was dressed in his usual pressed shirt and slacks. His tie was neat, as was his hair. His lips were pressed together and pulled downward, highlighting the few lines around his mouth. But something was different. What was it? House pondered this as he stared at his former lover.

"Your eyes," he whispered. Wilson's eyes were brown as usual, but they had flecks of green, gold, and even a mimic of his own cerulean blue. As the words escaped his lips, Wilson gasped, and rushed toward House.

"You can see me?" Wilson asked excitedly—but that was wrong too. Wilson's lips hadn't moved, and his voice; his voice was richer, deeper somehow, and more melodic than House had ever remembered. Wilson's words echoed in House's mind, filling every nerve and synapse with desire and sadness.

"I can see you," House reached a hand out, and gently ran the back of his hand across Wilson's face. Wilson's eyes shut, and his shuddered under House's gentle touch. House had expected death's icy kiss to remain in Wilson's skin, but he was thankfully mistaken. Wilson's skin was warm, flushed even; as if death had not claimed the younger man's body for its own.

"House," Wilson shook his head, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on the task at hand. "This is real. I'm here."

House smiled at Wilson. "Jimmy," the low, deep voice was now wrought with emotion, and as thin as a reed. "You're a dream. I wish you were real, more than anything, but you're not. You're just not."

"Listen to me, House," The voice in House's head was now firm and demanding. "This is real. You're not supposed to see me, and I don't know how this is happening, but it is. I'm here." Wilson's peculiar, kaleidoscopic eyes were fixed on House's as he reached out to grasp the older man's hand in his own. "I'm here." Wilson's hands were on House's face now, and he gently leaned forward until his lips mimicked his hands. House urgently returned the kiss, opening his mouth to allow Wilson access. The two tasted each other in earnest, deepening a kiss that would have left anyone else breathless. Wilson's mouth was warm and wet and home for House, who unconsciously noted that even in death, Wilson tasted like spearmint. Wilson wrapped himself around House, pressing their chests together. Their hearts, each sensing the rhythm of the other, began beating in time. Wilson broke away from the House's mouth and slowly began trailing kisses down the older man's neck. He paused a moment before he manipulated the sweet spot—the place where House's shoulder met his neck. Wilson ran the tip of his tongue along this curve, smiling into House's neck as he felt the muscles under his mouth tense. He knew House's toes were curling, and in this moment, he was surrounded by joy.

"I love you," Wilson's words were in House's mind and all he could feel was their truth and depth. Physical pleasure was nothing compared to the safety and honesty that flooded through House's body. No pain could touch him here, in this perfect bliss. After a few moments, House gently grasped Wilson's chin, pulling him up. He leaned back, still in the embrace, and peered into Wilson's eyes.

"I love you too." He said, softly, and moved forward to recapture Wilson's mouth with his own.

The cane that had been leaning precariously on House's loveseat clattered to the floor. House gasped and sat up, bringing a hand to his stubbled face. _Fuck,_ he thought, as a prickling sensation began behind his eyes. _It was just a dream. _House was back to reality, where his aching leg mocked his foolish hopes. House got up slowly and made his way to the bathroom, where the sudden change from dark to light made colors dance in front of his eyes. He ignored this and grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he continued to the toilet.

_Wait._

House turned so he stood squarely in front of the mirror.

_This isn't possible. _

He slowly took in his reflection. His lips were flushed, as were his cheeks. He turned his head, and on the crevice between his shoulder and neck was a large, fresh hickey.

_Is this possible?_

House stared at his reflection, willing sense and logic into the situation. When neither appeared, he quietly called out,

"Jimmy?"


	7. Wonderwall

House eventually went back to sleep, mainly to see if Wilson would appear to him again. This reunion was not to be; instead, House was left with his own fragmented subconscious that seemed all too ready to supply nightmares.

House woke in his bed. His first instinct was to reach for Vicodin, but today the ache in his leg was only extremely uncomfortable rather than the usual unbearable, searing pain that obscured clarity and judgment. House sat up slowly until the sunlight that streamed through the window shone directly into his eyes, illuminating the swirling shades of blue. He ran his hands through his hair, but pulled away when he felt an odd sensation.

_Why is my hand sticky?_

House brought the hand in question into the light. His long palm and slender fingers were covered in blood. _How-_- House found his answer when he saw the large vertical cut that traced the main artery in his wrist. Blood still flowed weakly, but the wounds seemed to have clotted. He lifted his other hand, and saw the same damage. House staggered out of bed and tried to stand. His apartment spun around him; he leaned against a wall while slowly, the black and white spots that clouded his vision cleared. He turned back to look at the bed, and saw its blue was now a stained purple. Using the wall as a guide, House limped to the bathroom. On the sink, next to a glass of water, was a small razor. The blade was discolored, slightly rusted. House picked it up and examined the 'rust.'

_Not rust. Blood. His blood._

He didn't remember doing any of this, and yet, for a moment, House felt happy. If he was dying, he would see Wilson soon. As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, the wounds on his wrists opened up like floodgates. His blood poured onto his hospital gown before seeping down to the floor. _Hospital gown? _House's strength left him and he collapsed onto the brown floor. He stared at the brown walls and ceiling, waiting for it to be over. Brown, brown, brown. The color was all he saw--_Exact color of Wilson's eyes._ House realized he couldn't feel the floor under his back anymore. He felt light, weightless. The blood continued to seep out of him. It surrounded his body, soaking him. In the brown room, the blood was almost invisible. Before he lost consciousness, House thought it was rather lovely to be suspended in the exact color of his dead lover's eyes

House awoke covered in sweat. His hand automatically moved to his head to rub the sleep from his eyes, but House stopped halfway to examine the veins in his wrist. The pale skin of his arms were whole and undisturbed—no marks, cuts or bruises. _Just a dream,_ his inner voice chastised. _Just like Jimmy_. House made his way to the bathroom, where his hypothesis of Wilson's presence was immediately negated. The hickey was still there, and was blooming in magical Technicolor shades of yellow, purple and blue.

_I may need a longer sabbatical._

Wilson sat in the cushioned chair by House's bed. _His_ former bed. Its current inhabitant thrashed and moaned in his sleep, occasionally calling out a single name: James. Tears ran down Wilson's face; he was powerless to help his lover, and the reality of his scant influence on the living was hard to bear. Wilson didn't understand how he had appeared in House's dream before, but he surmised that it could only be done once a night—if it could be done more than once at all.

Wilson had refrained from touching his lover until he fell asleep. After the funeral, he had followed House to his own car. Wilson moved to open the passenger side door, but instead slid through the metal and landed on the seat. _So I can go through metal, but leather supports me. Huh. There should be a guidebook for this_. Wilson watched House drive, noting the unusual amount of care the older man put into the trip home. House must have realized this himself, as he whispered to no one, "I'm keeping your car safe." Indeed, the car looked just as it had before the accident, if not better.

They arrived at a spotless apartment, much to Wilson's surprise. He expected, in his absence, that the apartment would be reduced to various takeout containers stacked precariously on top of one another, enhanced by a fine layer of dust. Instead, their quarters—now, solely House's home, looked just as it had prior to the accident. House immediately went to his piano. For a few moments, he merely sat on the bench, twirling his cane. He placed the wooden reminder of his inadequacy against the loveseat facing him—the same loveseat where he and Wilson had sat, kissed, and made love on. House's fingers flew over the ivory keys, pounding out fast, angry music.

Wilson watched as House tried to pour every ounce of energy into his music. This was not the sound he was used to hearing; the music he recognized as House's was patient, even slow—as if his lover took the time to coax beauty from every note and chord. Wilson went to the piano-the side opposite House, and trailed a finger over the onyx body. It felt as it always had; smooth, cold, and completely out of his reach. Wilson knew he would never play as well as House, so he never tried. The finger kept gliding across the piano, guiding Wilson closer to House. Finally, the younger man stood in front of his lover. Wilson sat carefully next to House, keeping his eyes glued to the man's face. House's expression of concentration had not changed, though a faint sheen of perspiration had taken its place on his forehead.

Before he knew what he was doing, Wilson's hand had begun to stretch towards House's face. The digits quavered slightly before making contact with the rough cheek he had missed far too much. The skin under his hand was just as he remembered—a walking contradiction. Rough on the surface, then smooth and warm underneath. Wilson peered into House's eyes, willing himself to be seen or felt, but the gaze of his love remained on the piano's black-and-white keys. House finished his song. The absence of music was louder than the playing itself. Bracing himself on the piano, House stood up, only to collapse a few feet away, onto the couch. Wilson stayed at the piano for a few moments, unable to move. Despair began to move in him, climbing toward his heart. He sat on the piano bench until he heard a faint sniffing sound behind him, and saw House wipe tears impatiently away from his electric eyes. Wilson realized that this was the most he'd ever seen House cry—and it was all for him.

House fell asleep on the couch. Wilson moved to be near him. _At least I can be near him_. Wilson crouched next to House's sleeping form. Wilson took House's hand and stroked the calloused skin beneath his fingers. A few moments had passed when Wilson's hand began to tingle. The feeling moved through his body, and Wilson realized he was glowing. Yes, _glowing_. The hand that held House's began to love definition and color, losing consistency until the digits were completely transparent. Wilson heard a roar in his ears, and a gust of warm wind. Then, as quickly as events began, they stopped. Wilson was now in a nondescript, white place. A glow emanated from all around; the light seemed to have no real source.

Wilson turned to better examine his surroundings.

"Oh," he gasped. House sat not more than two feet away, gazing straight at him. When the older man made no move towards him, Wilson inferred that, even in dreams, he was but a spirit. Not to be seen. Wilson almost cried out over the hopelessness of the situation, until House said, almost too softly to hear,

"Your eyes."

Wilson closed the gap between himself and his lover, and asked quickly,

"You can see me?"

And then they were in an embrace. Each tried to press tighter against the other, to deepen the kiss, to be fully connected. Through tears and his lover's mouth, Wilson assured House that he was real, that this was happening. He knew he had to leave proof. Wilson's mouth seemed to think for him, and it left its mark on House, in the very spot that could prove Wilson's existence.

"I love you," Wilson said, before he realized the words had crossed the threshold of his lips and leapt out into reality. He kissed house again, noting the older man still tasted like cinnamon and whiskey. House broke away from the kiss and looked into Wilson's eyes.

"I love you too."

And then House was gone. Wilson was on the cold floor again. His tongue and mouth pulsed with shared heat, and he cried out, wordlessly, for the loss of his lover's mouth.

House woke up, startled by the clatter of his cane. His gaze stopped right on Wilson, and the younger man's heart leapt hopefully, then dropped in the realization that a whiskey bottle sat directly in front of him.

House got up and went to the bathroom, but stopped to gaze in the mirror. He appeared to be startled by something. Wilson watched as House turned his neck, revealing Wilson's handiwork. House looked directly into the mirror, and softly called out,

"Jimmy?"

"I'm here, House." Wilson replied, pressing his palm into House's back. When no reaction came from the older man, he said, softer, "I'm here."


	8. Closer

House was losing his mind. He was starting to believe that the ghost of his lover and best friend was with him—and had given him a love bite to prove it. Unconsciously, House's hand found its way to the mark, stoking it to reassure his sanity. He _wanted _this fantasy to be real; his last reserve of hope was dependent on its truth. Whether Jimmy was imagined or not, the presence that littered House's flesh with goose bumps and left his hair on end had not yet departed. It left him distracted, frantic with frenetic energy so intense that even the sharp pain of his bloody fingers on the ivory piano keys could not slow him down. The A negative remnants of his DNA positively glowed against the pale keys. On and on he played, rocking back and forth to the crazed, violent melody that kept his thoughts at bay.

House began the same piece he had been playing for hours when a pain ripped through his mind and left him writhing in white-hot agony. The converse All Stars that housed his feet scraped the floor, trying to push away the torture; his fingers clasped and relaxed involuntarily, increasing the tiny red rivulets that streamed from his fingers until finally his bloody hands released the keys as he lost his balance and fell onto the floor in a crumpled heap. Finally, the anguish subsided. It did so with a sensation, an inaudible warning that seemed to say 'don't do this again.'

"Got the hint," House whispered, pressing his hands between his legs as the mental pain subsided and the tangible began. After a few moments, House struggled into a sitting position, his back braced against the leg of his bloodied piano. His face was in his hands, and they stung from the sweat that seeped from his pores. The pain only served as a reminder of his pathetic life. House's hands traveled down his cheeks and settled on his neck; his face was turned up to the ceiling and his focus was on his labored breathes. They came fast and thick, tears threatening to overtake him for the third time in as many days. In. Out. Breath. _Stay steady,_ he warned his heart, and slowly it returned to its normal rate. He stayed this way until his leg screamed to be moved into a more comfortable position. Gripping the side of a chair in front of him, House stood at his full height and wondered if moving was worth the pain. He decided that lying down would be his best bet, and thus strode as carefully as he could to his bedroom. As he looked down at his comforter, the image of the blood-stained sheets from his dream flashed in front of his eyes. Grimacing, he carefully got into bed and closed his eyes. _Wilson, _his mind called out hopefully, _if you want to talk, use words this time._

House sat in a glass booth. He wasn't claustrophobic, so this didn't bother him. Neither did the fact that he was currently hovering over what looked like a busy intersection. What did bother the doctor was that, without any warning, the bottom dropped out from under him. Gone was the drowsy apathy, replaced by horror and nausea. But, wait….._I'm not falling fast enough, _he realized. House landed gently on the sidewalk of the intersection. He stared at nothing, really. Everyday events passed before him. Mothers and fathers on the way to pick up children. Teenagers going for an afternoon ride, enjoying their newfound freedom. Then, time slowed down as a familiar blue Volvo drove by. Wilson was inside the car, oblivious to House's presence. The car stopped at a red light, and House limped toward it as quickly as he could. Wilson still didn't notice the older man, even as he peered through the driver's side window. House raised a hand to rap on the glass, but the molecules where his fist should have made contact with the translucent barrier were not cooperating. Instead, the crystalline structure opened up to his hand, and slid around his long fingers. House stared incredulously at his arm, half-plunged into the car of his dead lover. Wilson, still oblivious to House's presence, reacted to the light change in front of him; he smoothly shifted into first gear, gained momentum, then—

House watched, unable to move or speak, as a massive truck barreled down on Wilson's car. It fishtailed; the driver was obviously trying to avoid traffic, but his efforts were of no use. The truck hit Wilson, and carried the oncologist's car with it into the line of cars waiting at the other stoplight. House hurried forward, ignoring the pain that was radiating both up and down his leg, and followed his lover's car as it came to a stop. The driver's side was obscured, but House peered in through the passenger window. His stomach was in his shoes instantly. Wilson was crushed in the driver's seat. His neck was bent at an awkward angle, and blood dripped languidly from his mouth and nose.

Before he realized what was happening, the contents of House's stomach were on the pavement. He choked on the fluid that came up, unable to breathe. Every attempt at inhalation was vetoed by a fiery sensation at the back of his throat, warning him not to try again. He gasped weakly, but soon the carbon dioxide began to build up in his blood. House had never been so thankful to lose consciousness before.

"House." Warm hand stroked his cheeks, his hair. House shifted, trying to escape the hands that were trying to bring him back to the wakeful world.

"No," he mumbled, before finally opening his eyes. Instantly, he was in the arms of the 'nuisance.' "Wilson," he breathed, taking in the man's scent. Wilson always smelled of three things: soap, shampoo, and ridiculously expensive French cologne that House had always chastised him for wearing. House felt a wetness seep into his shirt; at first, he thought it was just the tears of his lover. _Too warm,_ House pulled back from Wilson and looked down at his shirt—his favorite Rolling Stones tee shirt that was now soaked through with Wilson's blood. Wilson's mouth and nose still bled freely, though his neck was now in the correct position.

"Oh, god, House, I'm so sorry." Wilson tried to pull away, tried to rub off the blood, but it just kept coming. House gripped Wilson's wrists, unrelenting.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, softly, looking around, as if searching for something. The blue eyes stopped on an object a few feet away, and the older man leaned away from Wilson for a split second to pick up whatever it was. As quick as lightning, House brought the object down across his right palm, where a red river opened up and began to flow.

"What?" Wilson began, then realized—House clutched a shard of glass in his hand; glass that was now stained with his blood. House moved toward Wilson again, this time placing his right hand on the younger man's heart.

"Your blood is my blood is our blood." House whispered, never letting Wilson's eyes leave his own.

"House," Wilson started, but was silenced by his lover's gaze.

"Jimmy," House said, his voice quavering almost imperceptibly. "Why are you still here? Why aren't you in those white robes, singing or something?"

James looked down, and in that instant was a young boy again. His long eyelashes curved sweetly against his cheeks, and when he looked House in the eye again, his were glazed over with tears.

"It's you," he said, softly. "I couldn't leave you."

The sun had gone down when House was awoken by the phone.

"Hey, House. It's Cameron. Just calling to check in. Call me if you want to talk. Bye."

_Yeah. That's the first thing on my 'To Do' list._ His mind spat bitterly, cursing Cameron for taking him away from Wilson. A dull ache sounded in his hand when he moved to sit up; when he investigated the pain, he found a clean, diagonal cut across his palm.

Your blood is my blood is our blood.

"It's you. I couldn't leave you."

House swallowed, mulling over Wilson's words. He nodded slightly, then said to the air, "I'll be there soon." House lay back down and reached into his bedside drawer. Two prescription bottles rolled out as the drawer opened; House took them both. One by one, he dry-swallowed every last Vicodin from the bottles. As he waited for drowsiness to overtake him, House softly whispered,

"I'm coming."


	9. Be Be Loved

"House, no! Stop!" Wilson shouted at the man, tried to shake him, to stop him, but it was useless. House was insensitive to Wilson's touch—and it hurt more than he could bear. He ran to the phone; _Have to call someone, have to help him! _ With shaking hands, Wilson reached for salvation. His flexed fingers met the black plastic, but only went through it. His hand was immersed in House's only hope.

"No!" Wilson's anger was so intense that his vision splintered; he fought to breathe, to stay steady and upright. Wilson acquiesced to the hopeless situation, and turned back to the room where his lover lay prone, succumbing to somnolence. His breathing had slowed, and Wilson knew it wouldn't be long before House went into circulatory collapse, then cardiac arrest. The younger man climbed into bed with House, pressing against the cold, clammy skin that hinted of impending death. Wilson stroked House's damp forehead, taking it into his lap and rocking gently back and forth.

"Wilson," House began, his voice soft and slightly forced. James leaned down, looked House in the eye and tried to find any signs of recognition—of sight. None.

"If you can hear me, Wilson," the soft voice continued, taking on a guttural edge. House was slowing slipping away, but this didn't stop him from trying to deliver one last message.

"You couldn't die without me, Wilson. Just like I can't live without you. My life is nothing without yours. You make me want to live through each day. You're the reason I can't go on." House was smiling now, his voice dropping an octave as he swallowed thickly.

"Wait for me." Moans filled the room, and Wilson tightened his grip on House, until he realized the animal-like moans of grief and despair were emanating from himself. Tears flowed down his face, the trails of wetness kept steady in an unrelenting flow. House was breathing shallowly now. It was a matter of minutes before he went into a coma—never to wake again. Wilson shifted, laying House's dead gently down, and laid next to the dying man. He took House's hand in his, wishing somehow that his touch could be felt, his comfort communicated. The realist in Wilson knew that this was impossible, that the only presence House felt was the impending blackness of death—and he faced it alone. _My death was quick, painless; You're staring it right in the face, inviting it in._ Wilson rubbed the cold skin of his lover and began a story.

"You know the first time I saw you?" It was my first day at the Hospital. I had just parked my car. I remember my hands shaking; I hadn't slept the night before, and I was deciding whether to get out of the car yet. Then I saw you—you were stalking into the hospital, looking all self-important. Even then, I knew I wanted to know you. You looked so—untouched, so self-contained. I wondered how anyone could be that confident.

"And then I met you. And I still wanted to be near you, to be your friend. Which makes me something of a masochist, I guess. But in the end, you came through for me. You showed me you are capable of letting someone in. And I'm glad. I'm so, so glad you chose me."

"Do you know how hard it was after those first few months to be your friend? I—I fell for you so quickly, so completely that it was all I could do not to look at you differently. It was so hard, keeping that removed gaze intact. I admit it though……after those basketball games….I did look." Wilson flushed, recounting a memory that had haunted his dreams, sometimes causing him to change his sheets in the middle of the night.

That's why I married so many times," Wilson continued, but his words were cut short. House's body shudder next to him as it tried to rid itself of the poison coursing through the veins, shutting down organs as it went. Wilson responded automatically, turning House on his side so he wouldn't choke on the vomit. When House's reflexes stopped pushing waste up his throat, Wilson relaxed his iron grip on the man's shoulder, and laid him down again.

"I died a little when you met Stacy. She was so perfect for you; tough, beautiful—and completely able to handle you. When she left—I have to admit it, I was happy. I was the only one left; you'd pushed everyone else away, but not me. Me you kept…and I stayed. You never knew why—well, not until recently. But you know what amazed me? You never complained. Not once did I see you wallow in self-pity—Vicodin, maybe but not pity. You were a martyr—flawed, but a martyr nonetheless."

Wilson was interrupted again by the excruciating silence that pressed down upon him from every angle. _What..._ he tried to figure out why his subconscious was ringing every alarm available, until he realized. House had stopped breathing. The loud, gruff labor of his lover's breath had soothed him, reinforcing that House was still there, still with him somehow. Wilson brought two fingers to House's neck, checking for a pulse. He found nothing. He was now truly alone.

It was unclear whether Wilson had fallen asleep or simply lost consciousness. All Wilson knew, as he groggily rubbed his eyes, was that it was dark out. He felt a body next to him, and wrapped his arms around his sleeping lover. As Wilson's hand brushed House's face, a chill went through the younger man. House's flesh was icy, and Wilson recoiled, snatching his arms back from the embrace. The events of the day flooded back into his mind, and he scrambled off the bed, slamming his back into the wall. His breath was heavy as he crawled away from the bed. He wanted out—out of the room, out of the apartment. Out of this horrible, cruel world that had allowed him to witness the death of the only man he had ever loved. He made his way into the living room, still hyperventilating, when he noticed something odd.

_Music_

Where was it coming from?

Wilson scanned the room. His jaw went slack when he found the source of the sad, sweet melody that enveloped the apartment around him. House was sitting at the piano, his eyes tightly shut, rocking away to the melody beneath his finger tips. Wilson stood up shakily.

"House," spilled from Wilson's lips. His voice was light, airy with hope and relief.A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. House was here, with him! They could live through eternity now, wrapped in their mutual love and passion.

Except, the older man didn't react to his name.

"House," Wilson called again, closing the distance between himself and his lover, and gently stroking the man's arm. "Look at me, House. This is real!"

Still no reaction.

Wilson sat down on the floor, his head in his hands. His skull pounded beneath his fingers; an invisible pressure bore down on him. He couldn't breath in; spots danced in front of his eyes, until all that surrounded him was a roaring rush of black. The pressure increased until Wilson's every fiber cried for death, for release from this mind-obliterating pain.

"You're already dead," a familiar voiced whispered in his ear. The voice brought back that blessed numbness, and Wilson opened the eyes. He brought his hands to his face, checking for disfiguration, or at least blood, but found nothing.

"You're ready," the voice continued.

"What about House?" Even though his emotion was numbed, Wilson's main priority was House.

"What about him?"

"Why couldn't he see me, or hear me? What happened to him?"

"He's too far beyond rescue to concern yourself with." The voice answered, a warning it its tone.

"No." Wilson replied defiantly. He deserves to be happy more that I do.

"Gregory House chose his fate; for this choice he will remain a spirit, unaware of anything but his own pain for the rest of eternity."

Wilson stood up, realizing he was once again in 'his' apartment. "No," he repeated, over and over, beating the wall with his fist in time to his chants.

"What would you have me do?" The voice questioned, softer this time.

"I—me." Wilson said, before thinking. Though, as the words passed his lips, he realized they were right. They were true, and they were what Wilson wanted. "Take me."

"You would trade your happiness for his?"

"In a second."

"So be it. But I warn you—your fate will be as his was. You will be trapped in the monotony of a half-life; you will have no realization of your own death, and you will not remember your experiences prior to this—or even this arrangement."

"Fine," Wilson whispered, tears trailing down his cheeks for what seemed like the thousandth time. "Just make House better; make him happy."

"So be it."


	10. I Want You

House woke up. He was in the hospital--_his_ hospital. Yet, he wore no gown; had no wrist band identifying him as Gregory House, age 45, blood A-negative. Instead, he sat in his darkened office, wearing his Velvet Underground shirt and favorite pair of jeans. A dark blazer was slung on the back of his chair, as if he himself had put it there. General Hospital blared from him TV.

Everything was….normal.

Except, House had no idea how he had gotten to his office. He didn't remember showering, dressing, or leaving his apartment. He slowly stood up, instinctively leaning on his left leg and clutching his desk for support. House slid his arm across the corner of his desk, reaching for his cane. When his grasp came up empty, he scanned the room. None of the usual spots hid the key to House's mobility; the corner was empty, the TV covered in nothing but a few stray medical journals. Resigned to compensating his lack of support with a few extra Vicodin, House turned and shook his jacket pockets, waiting to hear the comforting sound of rattling pills. When the only sound House heard was silence, emphasized by the muffled noise of cotton flapping against wood, the doctor became puzzled. House always ensured that a bottle of Vicodin was always on him—no matter where he went. He stayed there, crouched over his chair wondering where his pills could possibly be, until he realized he was being watched.

A young girl, about twelve years old, was looking at him through the glass doors of the diagnostics lounge attached to his office. She wore a hospital gown and bracelet, but what caught House's attention was her hair—or lack thereof. Without thinking, he moved forward a few steps, stopping squarely on his right leg.

_Wait._

House moved again, leading with his right leg. He tensed, waiting for the tearing, all-consuming pain to radiate up his leg and shut down all thought processes. When his leg and mind remained pain-free, House impulsively unbuttoned his pants, completely forgetting the child that stood in front of him. He closed his eyes, and let a trembling hand see for him. Digits inched down his right leg, pausing at the end of his boxer briefs. House let out a breath, unaware he'd been holding it, and let his fingers continue their descent. The tips, covered with swirling identification marks, left the safety of their cotton refuge. They hit skin and kept going. House waited to feel the mutilated, puckered skin—the pink and white scar tissue that had robbed him of his livelihood. His life.

The fingers hit his knee. House opened his eyes and looked down at an intact thigh muscle. A working leg that was attached to his body. His fingers had found their way back to the newly healthy skin and muscle and were currently massaging the area to test for feeling. It was there, it was all back! _This is a dream,_ he rationalized. _No reason to get your hopes up._

House jumped slightly when he realized he was still being studied by the bald girl on the other side of the glass doors. He pulled his pants up quickly and pushed the door open, in awe that his actions caused him no pain.

"What are you doing here?" He addressed the girl, who didn't answer at first, merely fixing him with a blue-eyed stare, so like his own.

"The question isn't what I'm doing—or even why you're here. The question is _what_ you're going to do."

"Aw," House retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is one of Jimmy's cancer kids waxing philosophy on me in the middle of the night?" House moved to the outside door of the lounge and held it open, motioning for the girl to exit. "Tell the nurse to turn down your morphine. You're feeling just a little_ too_ good right now."

The girl moved to leave as House instructed, but stopped in the doorway. She reached up to his cheek with a steady, albeit pale, hand. House shifted away as her fingers brushed his cheek; with his free hand he grasped hers tightly.

"Didn't your par—" he began, but the words died on his lips. He began to feel drowsy; his muscles weakened, and he fell backward. House braced, foreseeing a painful impact with the floor, but it never came. Instead, he fell through a mist so thick he could feel the moisture slide down his throat as he fought to breathe. As if someone had flipped a switch, the mist cleared. His surroundings came into focus, and he recognized them instantly. He was in his own apartment, accompanied by the strange girl.

"Oookay. Guessing you're _not_ one of Jimmy's cancer kids."

The girl looked at him again, and House felt, strangely, if he were naked. It was the girl's eyes, he decided. When she looked at him, he felt as if his soul—his every emotion, memory or thought were laid bare for her to see and judge.

"Funny you should mention Jimmy," she said slowly, in a tone that belied her physical form. And—she didn't _say_ anything. Her mouth didn't move; the voice that spoke of endless knowledge and wisdom resounded in his head. It was not carried in the air by waves; his ears played no part in listening to the girl.

"Who—" House licked his lips. His whole mouth had gone dry. A sudden sense of foreboding had laid its shadow in his mind. This whole scenario made no sense, and House's intelligence and logic was being pushed to the breaking point. He didn't like when control was taken away from him.

"I think there's something you should see in the bedroom," the girl's voice murmured in his mind. Her eyes, endless depths of blue—but gray blue, like the ocean after a storm, compelled him to move. Suddenly, he couldn't get to the bedroom fast enough. He had to know what was contained there.

What he saw broke the heart he vehemently denied having. Wilson was lying in his bed, clutching him. House looked at himself, took in the pitiful scene. A path of vomit trailed the left side of the bed, ending in a pool on the floor. Two empty Vicodin bottles lay next to the expelled contents of House's stomach. House—the one in James' arms, was pale; his hair stuck to his forehead, and rivulets of sweat ran down his face. His breathing was slow and shallow; his eyes, surrounded by broken blood vessels under the skin were closed. He was in a coma. Wilson was talking to him, telling him how thankful he was that House could love him; telling him how he had loved House almost as long as they had known each other.

House watched as the dying version of himself drew his last breath. Wilson, realizing the death next to him, flinched, and tumbled off the bed. James sat for a moment before his posture became rigid. His jaw clenched and he jerked a few times before relaxing against the wall, unconscious.

The able-bodied House watched this all. He didn't realize he was trembling until his legs bucked beneath him and he landed on the carpet. He scrambled backwards until he hit a wall, but managed to stay conscious.

"Get me out of here," he screamed at the girl. "I don't want to see this!"

"You did this to yourself," came her reply. "You deserve to see this."

House realized the truth in her words. He steeled himself and pressed against the wall, using it to stand. His steps were slow, hesitant as he approached the bed. His corpse lay their, looking peaceful; asleep, almost.

_Like Wilson,_

House leaned over himself, slowly bringing a hand to the ashen forehead. He swiped the damp hair away impatiently and studied his own face. Before he knew what he was doing, House had peeled an eyelid back and stared into his own eye. The rules of medicine stated that his eyes should have rolled back into his head, but when House slid the sheath up, an iris—his iris—stared back at him. A wave of revulsion rushed through him, and he added liquid to the already wet spot beside the bed.

House abandoned his body and turned to see Wilson rising, leaving the bedroom. House followed, crying out to the oncologist, but he wasn't heard. He followed his lover to the living room, where he was almost sick again. His image was now playing the piano, oblivious to Wilson's presence. The younger man sat down hard, grasping his head between his hands. House rushed to his side and tried to cradle Wilson in his arms, but the moment he touched the man, a spark like electricity ran through his body. The apartment melted from around him and he began to fall again, wind whipping him around like a top. Scenery began to form around him; he was in a graveyard. Wilson's funeral.

He watched as a faint light appeared and enlarged, until it was about the size of a man. Hazy features began to form, until standing in the middle of his own funeral was Wilson.

The scenery dissolved again, and House was at his apartment. He watched as Wilson watched over him, stroking his arm, or placing a kiss upon his unfeeling forehead.

A procession of images made their way through House's mind, forcing House to witness every moment of Wilson's self-sacrifice.

He watched as Wilson held his head, desperately trying to make him stop playing the piano.

Wilson in bed next to House, smoothing back his hair as the older man twisted and shouted in his sleep.

Wilson crying. The younger man's thoughts and emotions ran over House. The older man gasped for breath; so deep was Wilson's despair over his inability to comfort his lover.

Finally, the images slowed. House's surroundings melted again, and he was back in his living room, holding Wilson. The younger man gasped. House took this cry as one of despair and tightened his embrace, trying to comfort a man who couldn't feel him.

He was wrong.

Wilson's cries went from whimpers to screams of agony, and slowly the man began to fade.

"No!" House sobbed, trying to bury his neck in James' hair, trying to hold on. He fell forward when James disappeared entirely, leaving cold air where warm flesh had been just moments ago. House closed his eyes and sobbed. For the first time, he realized how selfish he truly was.

When his sobs had quieted, House opened his eyes. He was at the hospital again, the girl's hand in his own. With a strength he didn't expect, the girl embraced House, easing him down to the floor.

"Where is he?" House asked, tears still in his voice.

The girl ignored his question.

"You have two choices."


	11. Where I End and You Begin

House wanted desperately to wake up. He knew he wasn't dreaming, but the alternative—that this was truly reality, was more than he could come to grips with. His pride, his smart remarks—they had all been called out as the defense mechanisms they were, only to be washed away; like life preservers during a storm, House tried to cling to them. But all that was left was his own emotion; for once, he was truly vulnerable. He was now weaponless at a time when it seemed he needed protection the most; worse, he was no longer the smartest person in the room. The powers that be _(literally,_

House realized) were controlling the game now. House played blindly, ignorant of the rules and goals.

The girl's arms were still around him, supporting him like a mother holding her child. The grip was strong but not painful, warm but not comforting. After a moment or so, the girl released him, but brought a hand to his temple. Voices instantly filled House's mind—one was instantaneously recognized as James'.

"Gregory House chose his fate; for this choice he will remain a spirit, unaware of anything but his own pain for the rest of eternity." The unknown voice was deep, but not low. Its depth, like the girl's, spoke of knowledge and power. It was a voice of authority.

"No," another voice called out, nervous but firm. James' voice.

"What would you have me do?"

"I—me. Take me instead."

The girl broke contact with House and pushed the door of the lounge open. She left him there, on the floor, but waited expectantly in the hall.

"Come on."

House hadn't had time to comprehend what he had just heard; he followed her into the hall, gathering his courage to ask what exactly Wilson had meant by 'take me instead.' As he opened his mouth to speak, her words stopped him.

"You're speaking aloud to comfort yourself, to prove that you're tangible; that you're still living. Stop it. You're dead. You have no real reason to speak aloud; the only reason you can is because the human mind has such trouble letting go of its body. As for your question, you'll find out shortly."

The remnants of House's stubbornness, along with his ignorance of exactly _how _to speak without using his vocal cords kept him from replying. Instead, he allowed himself to be led along the Pearson wing of the hospital; the wing that led to the oncology department.

_Why are we here?_ his mind murmured unconsciously.

"Like I said," the girl replied. "You'll see." Together, they rounded the last corner of the Pearson wing, and were greeted by a familiar name. Gold plated letters spelled out 'James Wilson, M.D.' on the mahogany door just feet away. The girl moved forward, closing the gap to Wilson's office, and opened the door. She held it open slightly, motioning for House to go first.

_I don't want to go in there,_ he whispered to her, all the while knowing he had no choice in the matter. He stepped closer, with the gait of a man about to be executed. The office he stepped into was dark but familiar; assorted books and journals were neatly stacked on shelves throughout the office. Wilson's jacket was hung on the coat rack; his keys placed in the left-hand jacket pocket as usual. But what caught House's attention was not Wilson's preserved office. Instead, his eyes were glued to the oncologist himself, sitting in his chair, looking over patient files.

"Wilson," he began, speaking aloud without thinking.

"He can't hear you," a voice from behind him called, freezing House in his tracks. The older man had begun to move toward his lover, to touch his cheek, to smell his hair. To taste the lips he had missed so much.

"This is what _you_ did to him."

House watched, his mouth slack with horror as Wilson picked up the phone on his desk—which had not rung.

"Hello? Yes, I'm available as a consult this afternoon. What time? Three? Ok, room 345. Thanks." Wilson hung up the phone, then looked up from his desk. His eyes locked with House's. The older man's breath hitched. _Does he see me?_

"Yes, Cameron?" Wilson said to no one, deflating House's hope. "Uh, sure. I'll meet you in the pathology lab." Wilson got up from behind his desk, grabbing his lab coat as he left the office. House followed him wordlessly, forgetting about his young companion. He ran a few steps to catch up to James, momentarily distracted by the lack of pain in his leg. He brought his attention back to Wilson, who had entered the lab, and was now filling a beaker with what looked like air. The oncologist carefully measured out a few invisible drops of whatever he thought he was testing, and placed them on a slide. House watched as Wilson went through the motions of studying a sample under a microscope.

He had to look away as Wilson muttered to 'Cameron,' "No, they don't look cancerous."

The girl was behind him once more.

_Why do this to Wilson?_ he asked mentally, knowing his thoughts were like an open book to her.

"When you died," She began, her voice almost soft, "You had so much despair, so much loneliness in your heart and mind that you didn't realize you had died. Your mind was so convoluted, so protected and invulnerable to reality that you couldn't move on, and would've been trapped, like Wilson is now, believing that you were still alive—for all of eternity. James was with you when you took your life, and in that instant, he traded your happiness for his."

_Wilson sacrificed himself for me._

"Yes, he does seem to love you, doesn't he?" The girl stepped closer to him, taking his hand in hers again. "But do you love him?"

_Yes. Yes, more than I can bear._ House looked back at Wilson, who was busy pantomiming his life in a false reality, completely unaware that the man he had saved was but a few feet away.

"Then there's still some hope."

House turned back to the child that wasn't a child. _What do you mean?_

"Your choices. You can move on, cross over, whatever you'd like to think of it, and leave Wilson here. You won't ever see him again, but you'll forget about him. He'll be wiped from your mi—"

_Next option,_ House interrupted, forcing the girl to bite off her words. He wouldn't even contemplate leaving without Wilson.

The girl smiled, and House felt some hope. The smile was radiant; it communicated a new appraisal of House, as if he had passed a test of some sort. "Your other option is to stay here, with Wilson. He'll remain unaware of your presence, unless you can somehow figure out a way to wake him up, to release him from the prison that was meant for you. If you can't, you'll spend eternity here, with him, unseen."

House swallowed. He had no idea how to reach Wilson, but he wouldn't leave him.

_I'm staying._

The girl nodded, turning to leave.

_Wait,_ House called, aloud. _What's your name_?

"Aurelia," she said softly, out loud. He voice was no longer powerful, omnipotent; instead, it was the voice of a child. House blinked, and Aurelia's appearance shifted for a split second. Long, wavy hair hung down the girl's back. She wore a simple summer dress, but she was radiant nonetheless. She laughed at House's expression of awe, and waved slightly. The air shimmered around her, and she was gone.

House closed his eyes for a moment. Without opening them, he turned back to where Jimmy sat hunched over a computer, reading test results.

"Guess it's just you and me now."


	12. On the Other Side

House sat under the fluorescent lights of the emergency waiting room. Wilson came into the room, pulling down a face mask that didn't exist as he went. He stopped a few feet from House and began to explain that he had been unable to save a nonexistent patient from crashing during a surgery. The tumor was too large; too ingrained in the heart muscle. Wilson's voice caught as he passed the news on to the 'family.' His dark eyes glistened with the sheen of tears. His apologies were soft, strained, and he turned to leave.

House took this in, studying Wilson's actions; gauging the depth of the delusion around him. He followed James to the locker room, where the younger man stripped and climbed into a shower. He let the water run over him slowly, his face cast up to the shower head. Wilson's back gave away the tears he tried to stifle as a slight tremor ran through the muscles of his slick shoulder blades. His chin dropped to his chest and the cool tile of the wall welcomed his weight; it felt like a parent sliding a cool washcloth over his burning forehead. A tidal wave of nostalgia washed over him and his thoughts returned to the family that had lost their child. Nostalgia wouldn't be in short supply for them.

_ Happens all the time; _James assured himself.

Wilson's thoughts resonated in House's head, stirring him from the reverie that was his lover's grief. _ I can hear his thoughts.  
_

Wilson's hands were now immersed in his hair, slicking it back from his face before letting his fingers massage temples that felt as if they would explode from the pressure of his grief. The pretty lips that never seemed to deliver good news contorted with grief. _Get over it. Move on. _James set his jaw and cleared his throat. The water had become so hot it almost hurt, but he stood directly under it, enjoying the mix of pleasure and pain. The pressure soothed muscles that had become unbearably tight, but didn't help the pounding in his head. Wilson washed himself roughly, trying to scrape off the feeling of failure.

House watched as his lover began to drown in his own emotion. He reached out to Wilson, putting his hand on the man's back. As he did so, the muscles of the back under his hand stiffened. James stood straighter; when he turned House saw a look of steely resignation in the brown eyes that had once been full of tender hope. House pulled his hand away, barely realizing it had come out from the shower completely dry.

_Wilson. Oh, Wilson. I—I'm sorry. This is my fault. I did this to you.  
_

James stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He dressed quickly, leaving his tie loose around his neck. The locker room was still warm when he exited, spilling steam into the hall. House followed him through the exit in the clinic, expecting to see the familiar Volvo waiting in the parking lot. What he did not expect was his and James' apartment to be attached to the hospital. He looked at Wilson, waiting for some sort of reaction but received none. This was apparent normalcy for James, who set his briefcase down heavily before continuing on to the kitchen. House looked on as Wilson prepared an invisible dinner and ate it on the plates that House never had use for—except to steal food from, whenever Wilson cooked. The cutlery, held by delicate hands, clicked quietly against the china dishes. House turned away, leaving Wilson alone, and headed for the bedroom. The bed was made neatly. No hint of his own suicide was left behind. House lay down and breathed in the scent of the sheets. Nothing. No detergent, or remnants of cologne; no evidence of life. Water turned on in the bathroom, then the distinctive sound of teeth being brushed. Wilson emerged in sweatpants and a loose shirt. He lay down next to the lover he could not feel or hear, and turned out the light.

_ I love you. _House murmured, before letting himself drift away.

Wilson fell asleep soon after that. His dreams were pleasant, a welcome change from the events of the day. He sat in a field, on a blanket of beautiful images. The sun was high in a clear sky, beading warmth down on him. He was on his back with his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of wind gently sweeping over him. Something was off, though. _What is it? _ He wondered groggily. Wilson wanted nothing more than to forget about the prickling feeling in the back of his mind and return to his deliciously sleepy daze. The feeling grew stronger, and a compelling urge grew in him to turn over; to examine the images upon which he rested. When he did, his unlined brow creased in confusion. He wiped the slight perspiration away reflexively as he tried to pinpoint what, exactly, was wrong with his blanket. It was still the same size and shape, but had _ changed _somehow. _ Ah…_ When he lay down, the blanket was covered in different images. Now, there was a singular image repeated over and over. A set of blue eyes peered out from each image; a unique, ice blue iris with a dark blue ring around the outside. The eyes seemed to focus on him, to _look _at him with a sort of reverence. Wilson felt like maybe he knew these eyes; they reminded him of strength, of love somehow. He lay back down. This time, the warmth was generated from beneath him.

House realized something upon waking the next day. It had bothered him in his dreams, flashing into his thoughts through inconsistent scraps that only ignited questions, not answered them.

House did not exist in his lover's reality.

During Wilson's conversation with House's team, his name had not once come up. Wilson hadn't stopped by his office or tried to call him. House was gone from James' mind, erased.

It was then that House decided to start talking.

"Remember when I got shot?" House questioned as Wilson picked out a tie.

"I felt the first bullet go in. Only for a few seconds, because shock took over, but I remember the feeling." Wilson's hands moved smoothly over, under and through. He perfected his full Windsor knot, and moved on to the kitchen.

"The thing is, pain wasn't the worst part. It was like I was paralyzed. My body, not my mind. My thoughts—I think they sped up, actually. Anyway, when I hit the floor, and he stood over me and I felt the blood soaking my shirt, all I could think of was you. How I wasn't going to get to say goodbye, to tell you I loved you." Wilson rattled around the kitchen, oblivious to House's words.

"I thought I was done when he pulled the trigger the second time. I remember screaming your name, and then I was hallucinating."

_This isn't working.  
_

House changed tactics.

"When I overdosed on Oxycontin, I did it because of you." Wilson leaned on the counter, waiting for his toast. House moved in front of him and grabbed his forearms. He leaned in, looking into Wilson's eyes.

"I wanted to hurt you. I knew if I killed myself, you wouldn't have recovered. Not totally. At that point, I figured I was going to jail. What did I have to live for, anyway? You were so angry with me already." Wilson's toast popped up. The younger doctor moved to retrieve it, but House stood in front of him. He held steady until a peculiar light feeling moved through him. He felt like he was being stretched, contorted. Before he knew quite what was happening, he saw Wilson step forward. A rush of warmth flooded through him; it was as if he were being massaged, caressed by someone who cared for him. The moment ended too soon, and substantiality flooded through his limbs, leaving him in the kitchen alone. From the next room, he heard Wilson eating his toast.

Days went on. Wilson went about his routine, never hinting he felt House, never giving an inkling of hope to his flailing lover. House watched James, never leaving his side. He spoke to Wilson, kissed him, touched him, confessed stories, jokes and regrets. Nothing worked; his words reverberated back at him, empty and cold. They mocked him. Each story of love, loss and longing only emphasized his own loneliness.

Weeks passed on—or was it months? Time blurred, speeding up and slowing down, making it hard for House to follow it, to concentrate. On one such homogenous day, Wilson sat in his office, shuffling through papers and making notes.

_That sound.  
_

As Wilson marked each form, it slid against the desk. He was like a machine. Open the folder. Skim the contents. Mark with the pen. Sign your name. Move the folder. Open. Skim. Mark. Sign. Move. Open. Mark. Skim. Sign. Move. Open—House jumped from his seat, suddenly irate.

"Wilson!" House lunged for Wilson's desk, splaying his arms to knock the folders off the desk. His hands slid through the paperwork. House's breath came fast now. His pores opened and sweat began to drip from his forehead.

"Don't you see? This isn't real! You're not in the hospital! I'm the only thing that's here! I'm the only thing that's real! Snap out of it Wilson, please!"

Tears tried to fight their way from House's eyes, but he forced them back. He moved closer to Wilson and put a hand to his warm cheek, stroking softly down to the man's neck.

"Please," he whispered into James' ear. "Wake up. Let me in." Wilson's non-responsiveness sent House into a rage once more, this time at whatever had put him here.

"What do I have to do? I love him, I said I love him. I'm here, I'll stay here." Shudders ran through House as he shouted towards the heavens. "This isn't fair! You stacked the odds against me from the beginning! I can't reach him, he isn't there! He's not real, not real, not real! I can't help someone who isn't there!"

House didn't expect a response, and he didn't get one. The silence had gone on for too long; it suffocated him. His voice was the only thing keeping him sane, keeping him present for Wilson. He sat down across from his lover and began to speak.

"I know you think I didn't hear you when I was dying. I didn't, but now I know everything you said. Do you remember that day, when you first saw me? Well, I saw you first. I drove in, and you were sitting in your old Volkswagon. I swear, your knuckles were about to pop off you were gripping the wheel so hard. You were pale, and I remember laughing a little, 'cause I saw you shaking. So I drove in, a little fast, to screw with you. Then I met you. You were shy at first, then figured out how to react to me. You and Stacy, you two were the only ones who could handle me. God, Stacy. You were married, and I was with Stacy. So many lost years. Because you know what? From that moment, the very moment I saw you, I wanted you. I remember, the first thought I had was about your eyes. I wondered what color they were." House chuckled, then fell silent.

_ What was I saying? _ He couldn't remember if he'd said anything to Wilson, or if they had just been sitting together in silence.

"After my leg—I—I pushed Stacy away on purpose. Your marriage was having trouble at the time, so I thought maybe it could work out. God, even though it hurt so bad, I remember thinking that at least you had a reason to touch me now." House paused again, and was startled by the silence of the room. Had he been talking?

"I think part of why I love you is that you feel too much, and I feel too little. You let yourself be vulnerable, but don't expect it of me. That's why; you didn't expect me to change. Didn't want me to change. Stacy did. Said she felt like she was lonely, even when I was there. 'Lonely in a room full of people.' That's how she described it."

This time, House knew he had been speaking, but he couldn't piece together anything he had said. He looked up a Wilson, unsure of what was happening. James had stopped doing paperwork; he sat prone in his chair. His head was cocked as if he were waiting; listening to some far-off noise that took every ounce of concentration to hear.

House was finally heard. But this time was different. There was always a catch. Every word, every syllable confessed was erased from House's mind as it was spoken, edging him closer and closer to oblivion. He dug his own grave slowly, word by word. The audible remembrance of the last shreds of love for Wilson would leave him in a constant state of amnesia, trapped, as Wilson was.

And thus it came to pass.

House paused for a moment. He had but one memory, one inkling of who he was; of who Wilson was. If he let it go, if he said it out loud, his fate was sealed.

He looked at Wilson again. The man was looking around the room, as if searching for something. _Someone? _House wondered. Gazing at his best friend, his lover, his life, House swallowed thickly. There was never a choice in the matter. He would never have made any other decision.

He began slowly.

"The night you kissed me, after rehab—you saved my life. If you wouldn't have taken me back, I don't know what I would have done." Vertigo rocked House's body; he held fast, gripping the chair like a life raft. Wilson was looking directly at him now, his eyes closed, listening. House felt light, like he had been on a roller coaster for hours. Like when Wilson had passed through him to retrieve his toast.

"But then there you were, on my doorstep. With those pancakes. And you were soft, gentle. And all I wanted to do was hold you to me as hard as I could, but I just made fun of you. I kept you at arms length, then, because I knew how much you could hurt me. It was ok for you to want me, but you couldn't know how much I needed you." House smiled at this memory.

i Where am I/i He got up from the chair he didn't remember sitting in. A man was with him, a man he didn't know. He turned to see a door, which he ran through. He felt dizzy; the walls of the foreign maze he was trapped in began to close around him. _Glass everywhere, _he noticed. The glass walls laid bare the details of offices and _patient rooms…_. But they were all deserted. _Where is everyone? Why am I in a hospital?_

The fluorescent lights above him began to spin. Spots leaped in front of his eyes, jockeying for a better position. He fell to his knees with a vague sense of failure, as if he had let someone down. Before his mind stole consciousness from him, something warm and soft touched his cheek.

House opened his eyes to see the man who had been sitting hear him. The man was sitting over him, brow furrowed in concern.

"Who are you?" House mumbled, frightened, but oddly comforted at the same time.

"Shhh," The man said. He placed a hand under House's head and pulled him into a sitting position. House felt a warmth on his chest and realized the man's other hand was there, pressing against his heart.

"Relax," the man whispered. The heat from his hand intensified. House squirmed under it. It was too hot; it was burning him, it hurt—"Get off me!" he cried, his voice laden with pain, but the man held him in a vice grip. The pain arced. His blood was on fire; it burnt his veins, pooled in his heart. Then—images began to flow instead of pain. He and the man kissing, laughing. Together in bed—as more than friends Looking at him with intense brown eyes; eyes that communicated disappointment, devotion, pain, but most of all, love. Watching him at a funeral. Looking after him, invisible. Holding his head as House died.

The images slowed, then stopped. House opened his eyes, the eyes that so closely mirrored the ocean and the sky, and looked up at the man that held him-- _Not the man! Wilson!_

His mouth was on Wilson's in a millisecond. Wilson laughed, opening his lips to allow House's insistent tongue. The older man touched every nook, every corner of his lover's mouth; like a man dying of thirst, he could not get enough, could not get close enough. Finally Wilson broke the kiss.

"Thank you," he whispered, encircling House with his arms. He pressed into House's neck, inhaling his lover's scent.

"For what?" House was overcome. He couldn't move, couldn't let go of Wilson for fear he would disappear.

"You saved me. You finally sacrificed yourself; you gave everything and asked for nothing in return."

"Is this real?" House was still slightly panicked; he didn't want to waste time talking if Wilson were to be snatched away at any second.

_ This is real. _Wilson's voice replied, echoing through House's mind. House looked up at James, surprised, then smiled as his lover broke out in a grin.

House resumed kissing Wilson. _Wha—_Wilson mind questioned, but was interrupted by House's own thoughts._ If we don't need to use our mouths to talk,_ he replied, grinning into the kiss, _then I suggest we don't.  
_

Fin.

Thanks everyone for your comments/reviews. I may write an epilogue, though, so stay tuned. Thanks again!


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